


Eskimo Kiss

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Docking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Case, Undressing, Victorian Clothing, peen kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5089505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock had to dress up in Victorian costume for a case. They come home drunk. And horny. And pretty. And... very very very silly</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eskimo Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This whole silly story was inspired by [a vintage queer porn postcard of two young men in next to nothing](http://221b-hound.tumblr.com/post/132016808140/this-vintage-queer-porn-pic-inspired-possibly-the), Victorian women's garb style, and I just *had* to write something for it.
> 
> Many many thanks to Atlin Merrick for the inspirational picture and for cheering me on while I was writing. We agree that it is the silliest thing I have ever written. And I wrote Meltdown. 
> 
> You one's for you, honey!

The cab pulled up outside Baker Street. The driver glanced in the rear vision mirror at his passengers – two genteel ladies from the 1880s, apparently. It made a change from sewer muck, soot and blood, he supposed.

‘Well, one of you has to pay,’ he said to them, his eyes narrowed.

John looked steadily at Sherlock. Sherlock gazed steadily at John.

John broke first, and sighed. ‘Let me guess. No pockets in the dress.’

‘Of course not. It’s correct period dress.’

‘Of course it is.’ But there was an irrepressible grin denting the corners of John’s mouth, and no matter how hard he tried to remain annoyed and disapproving, the grin kept trying to erupt.

Sherlock remained regal and adjusted his bodice so that it sat better on his fake breasts – some rolls of cloth – held up by the very correct corset.

John bit the inside corner of his lip and reached over to adjust the bonnet on Sherlock’s head, as it had begun to list to the left.

‘You look very fine, Mistress Holmes,’ he said, and tapped Sherlock playfully on the nose.

‘Thank you, Madam Watson,’ replied Sherlock, fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly, ‘May I say that your electric blue dress complements your eyes most effectively.’

‘Meter’s still runnin’,’ said the cabbie, a bit bored. He’d seen a lot go down in the back of his cab. Including this pair, to be frank. Nothing they did surprised him much anymore.

‘Yeah, yeah, keep your hair on,’ muttered John, and he grabbed handfuls of his long skirt, the petticoats underneath and hauled them all up to his hips, where he had, in the spirt of preparedness, tucked forty pounds into the elastic of his also period-correct bloomers.

Sherlock sat forward to watch these proceedings with great interest.

‘You wore the bloomers.’

‘Yes, I wore the bloomers. You said it was important to wear the bloomers. You said it would be obvious if I didn’t wear the bloomers. So I wore the bloomers.’

‘John Hamish Watson, are you drunk?’

‘No, I’m not drunk. You’re drunk.’

Sherlock sniffed and sat up straight, then leaned forward again to have another look at John in his bloomers, fishing around for twenty pound notes.

‘I might be a bit drunk,’ Sherlock admitted, ‘Ruecastle put something in the champagne.’

John was shoving twenties at the driver, who was taking them very carefully in a pinch of his forefinger and his thumb, because he wasn’t sure precisely where in the bloomers his fare had been secreted before delivery.

‘Ruecastle,’ John said, and his face enacted an entire soliloquy without words before he concluded with an emphatic, ‘That. Arsehole.’

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock, nodding fiercely, ‘That is what he is.’

‘You can get out my cab now,’ said the cabbie firmly.

John nodded, not quite as fiercely as Sherlock had, opened the door and stepped onto the road in a very ladylike fashion in his button-up boots - blue to match his dress (and his eyes), and really quite navigable in that solid, square heel. He walked with a bit of a duck walk, stopped, narrowed his eyes, adjusted his gait and sort of tippy-toed around to Sherlock’s side of the cab, hips swaying a little. He opened Sherlock’s door and offered his hand.

Sherlock took it graciously and stepped out in front of Speedy’s in a gorgeous green frock with lace at bodice and cuffs and a matching bonnet. His button-up boots were a darker green and had a narrower heel. He had splotches of red on his cheeks, and John thought he looked charming.

‘You look charming,’ he said admiringly.

‘You look pretty,’ said Sherlock, swaying towards John to give him a clumsy kiss. John tilted his head up, puckered, and waited for the kiss to land, which it did on the third try.

The annoyed cabbie had disappeared by then, and not provided any change, because he considered it an unspoken agreement that he got paid fucking _danger money_ any time he took that pair home. One day he might strangle the sod who kept passing their fare onto him when they booked a cab. Or he’d write his memoirs. Perhaps he should start taking photos for the illustrated section in the middle.

*

Arm in arm – partly so they could both keep their balance – Sherlock and John walked with their little womanly steps towards their door.

It opened to Mrs Hudson, just on her way out. She stared at them in amazement and then broke into gales of laughter. She tried to stop, looked at them again, and more gales ensued. She covered her mouth but that didn’t help at all.

‘Hudders,’ said Sherlock haughtily, ‘Today we caught an antiques thief-‘

‘Who was branching out into extortion and poisoning,’ interjected John.

‘-what John said – by working undercover at the _Dickens Comes to Life_ exhibition grand opening. Costume,’ he said, using a sweeping gesture to demonstrate and wobbling a bit, ‘Was _de rigeur_.’

‘Did you have to dress as women?’

‘Only costumes left,’ said Sherlock, waving his hand as though it were of no concern whatsoever.

‘He likes the air between his knees,’ said John earnestly.

‘The men’s suits were all brown tweed. John looks better in blue,’ said Sherlock.

‘What happened?’ Mrs Hudson really was having terrible trouble keeping a straight face, though she agreed about the Doctor and the electric blue dress.

‘Ruecastle,’ said John as though it was a three syllable swear, ‘Arsehole.’

‘The arsehole was stealing artefacts and first editions,’ explained Sherlock.

‘Oh my goodness, did he poison you?’ Mrs Hudson’s humour had turned suddenly to alarm.

‘Nooooo,’ said John, then frowned and tried again. ‘Nope.’

‘He spiked the champagne with Polish slivovitz-‘

‘Seventy two percent,’ said John, duly impressed.

‘- in an attempt to cover up his attempted poisoning of the curator,’ Sherlock said, with the overly precise diction of the thoroughly inebriated.

‘But Sherlock got him. Even half cut, Sherlock got ‘im!’ John staggered a little.

‘John Hamish Watson, you _are_ drunk,’ Sherlock accused.

‘Maybe a little,’ John agreed. Then he drew himself up tall and lifted the hem of his pretty blue dress and said in as ladylike a tone as he could manage, ‘I need a piss. I am going upstairs.’ And then, with that womanly walk he was getting so good at, he edged past Mrs Hudson into the foyer.

‘I too, need a piss,’ said Sherlock with hauteur worthy of Lady Bracknell, ‘Good day, Hudders.’ And he followed John upstairs, his own womanly gait with a lot more sway in the bustle.

Mrs Hudson watched them go to make sure they didn’t fall bustle-backwards down the stairs, and to take a photo on her phone, which John had shown her how to do nine times now, and she finally had the hang of it. Then off she went, giggling, to play a round of bridge and the ever-popular “You’ll Never Believe What They’re Up To _Now_ ”.

When Sherlock got upstairs, what John was up to was standing in front of the loo with his dress over his head, trying to get the bloomers down so he could have a piss, godamnit.

‘John, John, ssssshhhh,’ he said, because John was swearing and it was very unladylike indeed.

John stopped swearing and stood still: underneath the dress and petticoats, which were still over his head.

Without another word, Sherlock bent to undo the tie at the top of the period-correct bloomers. His bonnet fell over his eyes and he pushed it back out of the way so it was perched on the back of his head. He stuck his tongue out between his teeth to make him see better, and finally tugged the fastening free. Then he eased the bloomers down John’s hips and thighs to free John’s penis, and helpfully patted the penis in question.

‘There you go,’ he said, pleased with himself.

‘Can’t see,’ mumbled John.

Sherlock shuffled around behind John, took him by the hips to angle him properly, placed John’s hand on John’s penis and helped him to aim correctly.

‘There you go.’

There in the cottony dark, John relieved himself, sighed contentedly, gave a happy little shiver, and dropped the dress back down. He’d forgotten to haul the bloomers back up.

Sherlock, who felt he had a much better handle on this whole Victorian frock thing, hoiked his skirts and petticoats up to his hips, tucked all that material away with his elbows, and managed to pull the bloomer tie loose – with a flourish and a cocky waggle of his head at John, because _that_ was how it was done, _ta daaa!_ – and pushed his bloomers down to get his cock out.

John nodded, though in approval of the technique or of the presence of the SherCock was unclear. He frowned in some disapproval when Sherlock’s bloomers were hoiked up again, but then they both washed their hands and dried them on a fluffy towel and wobbled their queenly way back to the living room.

Slow disassembling of their attire then ensued, though Sherlock seemed to think the bonnet needed to stay put for the duration and kept readjusting it on his mass of curly hair.

Sherlock got the green dress off, the lacy blouse off, the bloomers off, and then stared in curiosity at the corset caught around his middle – and at the knot he had made in trying to pull the laces loose with the previously successful flourish. He still wore the satiny green boots, fine wool stockings and the comely bonnet.

And a hard-on.

He stared at the hard-on.

Sherlock didn’t know where the hard-on had come from. Well, except for he’d taken the bloomers off first – John had asked to see the SherCock again, and Sherlock was in an obliging mood – and the skirts had felt very pretty brushing against his cockhead when he dropped them over his bloomerless groin, and then John had petted it through the skirts until he’d hoiked them up again to view the result of the petting. It had risen like a flower towards the sun and stayed that way through the rest of the disrobing and there it was now, pink and dewy and really, Sherlock thought, quite lovely.

John nodded, the object of his approval very clear this time. He thought the SherCock was quite lovely too.

Sherlock smirked a cocky little _my dick is lovely_ smirk. ‘Show me yours,’ he demanded.

John deemed this only fair. He was not nearly so far through the disrobing as Sherlock – he couldn’t get the hang of all these buttons and ties at all. The bloomers were off – he had in fact stepped out of them on the way out of the bathroom because he’d accidentally left them around his ankles. The little electric blue jacket that had gone over his shoulders was also gone, leaving foamy lace across his chest and little straps over his shoulders.

In answer to Sherlock’s demand, John lifted up his skirt and petticoats in front, revealing a nicely plump cock that was heeding the call of its preferred dance partner. As they both watched, John’s cock thickened and lengthened and pointed at the SherCock like a dowsing rod finding the aquifer.

John was very pleased with the look. He waggled his hips and made his cock waggle while he and Sherlock both stared at it.

‘Do that again,’ insisted Sherlock.

John held his skirts back with two fists, waggled his hips, and _ipso facto_ his cock, and they both looked on it and It Was Good.

Sherlock decided that the right thing to do at this point was to sit on the footstool so he could be eye to… eye with John’s penis. Experimentally, he stuck his tongue out and licked the end of it. John’s cock leapt up, banged him on the nose and damn near stabbed him in the eyeball. The blunt, sticky end of it prodded his eyebrow, anyway, and Sherlock, startled, fell backwards off the footstool.

He didn’t fall all the way – that magnificent arse of his provided a solid foundational pivot point. Instead, he found himself with his shoulders on the floor, his bonnet all askew, his corset twisted slightly to the right, his elegantly shod, stockinged feet balancing on the other side of the stool, and the SherCock proudly presented for John’s viewing enjoyment.

Sherlock took hold of his penis and gave it a rub, because that also seemed like the thing to do.

John, enamoured of the display, shuffled forward so that he straddled one of Sherlock’s legs. He took his own cock in hand, and gave it a rub in solidarity. And then, giggling, he leaned forward a little, put the sticky head of his cock against the sticky head of Sherlock’s, and rubbed them _together_.

Sherlock looked momentarily puzzled, but in the spirit of give and take, held his cockhead against John’s and rubbed back.

‘Eskimo Kiss,’ said John, and giggled harder.

‘Eskimo Kiss,’ breathed Sherlock, like it was a revelation, and he nudged his sticky slit against John’s again and moved it around, like their slits really were two mouths kissing.

It felt funny. It felt ticklish. It felt _nice_. Not _ohgodohgodohgodohgod_ nice. Just… _John’s peen and my peen are kissing_ nice.

‘Mmmmm,’ hummed John, smiling angelically while their peens kissed, ‘S’nice.’

‘John,’ said Sherlock lazily, while he made their peens kiss some more and let it make him feel tingly all over (although that might have been the result of lying with his head so far below his feet), ‘John, John, John.’

‘Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerlock,’ replied John, now bumping the end of his cock in quick, tiny bumps against Sherlock’s crown, like a dozen lightning fast little kisses.

‘You like science fiction films.’

‘Yes I do.’ Kiss kiss kiss of the peen.

‘John.’

‘Hmm?’

Sherlock, nearly upside down on the floor there, smirked and giggled with the terrible pun he had not yet unleashed.

‘Docking procedure!’ he half-yelled. He remembered it from one of the stupid films he’d mostly ignored while John watched it in favour of fellating John. (He had fellated John to that film six times now, and John still didn’t know how it ended. It was entirely likely that John was now only putting that film on if he wanted a guaranteed blow job about 45 minutes in.)

John sniggered – he was a man who appreciated a terrible pun, as any reader of his blog could tell you – and said, ‘Hold still a sec.’

Sherlock held still, feeling giddier by the second, and watched intently while John tried the manoeuvre, holding their cockheads together and encouraging his own foreskin down to encompass his own and then Sherlock’s crown. He managed it after a moment or two, and then he and Sherlock watched their joined cocks and giggled.

‘Eskimo Kiss under the Bearskin Rug!’ declared Sherlock. 'Bear skin. Bare. Skin.'

They giggled so hard that they jiggled and undocked, though a luscious sticky string of pre-come acted as a bridge between them for a moment.

‘I’m taking you to bed, my dear Miss Holmes, there to have my wicked way with you!’ said John like he was a pantomime villain.

‘Fuck, yes,’ said Sherlock, forgetting that pantomime heroines didn’t talk like that.

With much fumbling and slipping and awkward falling on elbows and generally making a hash of the relatively simple concept of getting to one’s feet, John and Sherlock managed at last to rise, to kiss and grope each other and make for the bedroom.

John tripped over his skirts when the sight of Sherlock’s ripe bum curving out from under that tangled corset caused several synapses to seriously misfire. When he caught up again, he grabbed two handfuls of the bounty and squeezed until Sherlock fell face-first onto the bed, and then scrabbled to get his knees under his so he could thrust his bum up and further enjoy a good fondle.

John bent to kiss each juicy arse cheek thus presented and crawled onto the bed next to Sherlock. They were now lying perpendicularly across the bed. Sherlock had his cheek mashed to the duvet, arse in the air, so John sprawled on his belly and turned his face to look at Sherlock.

‘Fuck, you’re gorgeous,’ he said, besotted.

‘Yes I am,’ agreed Sherlock like it was a personal achievement and someone should give him a gold star.

‘’m so lucky,’ said John.

‘No,’ asserted Sherlock, ‘I’m lucky.’ Then he sighed happily. ‘You’re so pretty in that dress. Your eyes are sooo blue. Like the sky at dusk. If they had stars in them, I’d learn every one of them.’

John wriggled over to kiss him, and that toppled Sherlock over onto his side, though he kept his face towards John so he didn’t miss any of the kiss.

‘Gonna have my wicked way in just a tick,’ John promised him. He hauled his skirts and petticoats up to show Sherlock his cock, which was technically still interested but operatively not up to the promise previously made.

Sherlock, in his corset that had slithered from his chest down to his waist, was already asleep.

John palmed at his cock a little, hummed a little, looked across at his sleeping heroine and smiled dopily. Besotted did not begin to cover it. He reached over, took Sherlock’s hand in his and whispered, ‘You’re _amaaaaaaaaaazing_.’

Then he, too, was asleep.

*

Which is how Mrs Hudson found them, two hours later, when she went up to pop a cake into the fridge for them and the bedroom door was wide open.

Flat on their backs in faux Victorian _deshabille_ , dicks out, snoring slightly, wearing sappy smiles and holding hands.

‘You’re not decent,’ she murmured, but she was grinning fondly. Softly, she closed the bedroom door on them and tip-toed back home. To make notes for the next bridge party.

 


End file.
